Hidden prey

Chapter 32

Carl Walther almost stopped thinking when Grandpa killed himself.

He spent the night wide awake, sprawled on the bed, looking at the dock; the next morning he felt like he had gears in his head, turning slowly, full of sand; the world was not quite in sync.

His mother fussed at him, argued that he should stay home, but he drove into school. Random images popping up as he drove: Grandpa and Grandma dead, the images imagined. His father dead, the image right there, replaying itself-the warmth of his body, his lonely grave out in the clear-cut. The woman he killed in Dad's bed; the lady vagrant on the street, the feel of the wire cutting into her neck; the Russian agents going down.

A car in front of him had a fading WWJD sticker on the back bumper: What Would Jesus Do? And he thought, What would Grandpa do? Grandpa would… work it. He'd play it like a chess game.

But exactly what would he do? In all the years they'd been together, Grandpa kept telling him what to think, but had never quite told him how.

He was playing flag football, still in silent, robot mode-no one at the school had said anything at all about Grandpa being a spy, although he could feel eyes following him in the hallways-when he saw the parade of cars turn the corner and pull up outside the main entrance.

The cars were almost a block away, and there were no sirens or lights, so nobody else paid any attention. But Carl noticed them, and focused, and saw his mother get out of the lead car with the chief, and he knew they were coming for him.

He walked over to the gym teacher and said, "I've got to get my medicine in my locker. I'm gonna puke, I'm really sick," and he turned and walked quickly across the playing field, inside, into the locker room, shedding clothes as soon as he was inside. He dressed in one minute, and was out the door, over a fence, down to the parking lot and into his old Chevy.

Where to go? Russia? He couldn't drive to Russia. He just needed to get loose, get away. Get a gun, he thought. Get out in the woods. He got a quick image of himself with a rifle and some pretty neat clothes, like the kind from Cabela's, and maybe a cowboy-type hat, looking through the trees; a Honda four-wheeler. A guerrilla…

He was rolling on teenage hormones. There was some joy in it, a little fear, lots of intensity. He had gas, he wasn't hungry yet, he had seven dollars in his pocket and he knew where he could get both food and guns and there was nobody home…

He went that way.